


Demon in My View

by Ciel_Leon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A shoe is thrown, Alternate Universe - Demons, Attempt at Humor, Confusing, Cute, Demon as a Pet, Demons, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Family, Fluff, Gen, Got enough tags yet?, John gets one over Sherlock, Kissing, Lestrade is tired, Long, M/M, Neither John or Sherlock are demons, Original Character(s), Sherlock is a little dense, Sherlock's Coat, Weirdness, What Was I Thinking?, Why Did I Write This?, sherlock's armchair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:52:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ciel_Leon/pseuds/Ciel_Leon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had no idea his soul was capable of harboring a demon.  Sherlock had no idea they even existed, then again, it's hard to explain the creature standing in the middle of the room grinning at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demon in My View

He takes a breath and in that one moment, he becomes aware of _everything._

He feels his chest rise, muscles stretching and relaxing in equal part as oxygen fluids his lungs as soon as his lips part.  He feels a surface against his back, cool in temperature but not freezing, notices that the air is somehow warm and humid in contrast to the cooler temperature that is chilling the bare skin of his back and causing goose-pimples to appear across his flesh.  Recognizes the feather light touch of his eyelashes against his cheeks as his eyes flicker unseeingly beneath his eyelids.

On the exhale, he finds his fingers digging into cool sand, and can practically taste the scent of gunpowder and burnt flesh that invades his nostrils.

Unconsciously, his tongue darts out to moisten dry lips and – _cinnamon, rosemary, overwhelmed with cayenne._

The mixture is heady and something he hasn’t _smelt, tasted_ , in so long he doesn’t recognize it at first before- _Egypt, Iran, China, Serbia, Arizona, Chile-_

_Afghanistan._

A moment later and he’s slowly opening his eyes, briefly thanking god for the fact that is night and not day before attempting to sit up, only to fall on his back as agony sears through both shoulder and thigh.

He waits a moment for the aftershocks of pain to dissipate before he tries a second time, he’s prepared for it the next time he tries to sit, manages to push through it, but doesn’t make any move to stand.

His awareness falters for a moment, his surroundings- sand dunes half-buried bodies and weaponry- blurring slightly, then everything goes black.

 

* * *

 

It’s only a short while later to him when everything snaps back into place.

The air here is different, the scent of burnt oregano and clove stifling but welcomed, familiar in a way, but that is not what is important.

What is important is that he is running, chasing after the tails of a trench coat down oddly familiar streets, twisting and turning this way and that.

He wonders why he doesn’t stop, thinks about it for a moment, but there is this nagging sensation pulling him forward, and something whispering in his ear.

_‘Keep running, don’t lose sight of him, hurry, hurry, hurry!’_

It’s all he can do to keep running, but when he finally catches up to the figure in the trench coat, awareness leaves him again.

 

* * *

 

His waking moments become more and more frequent, more and more natural.

He still runs after those coat tails, but now he’s also needing to handle a gun-‘ _shoot the gray haired man, shoot him now_ ’- as well as tackling people that aren’t… well, aren’t the man wearing the trench coat.

Despite the fact that waking becomes easier, ‘sleeping’ continues to stay sudden.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that at first, in the beginning that is, as this whole little charade goes on though, he becomes increasingly more frustrated.

The urge to latch onto that trench coat increases in leaps and bounds.

Until one day he catches them, except-“John-?”

He doesn’t find out who is wearing that infernal trench coat, awareness leaving a split second after that curious name is muttered by a foreign voice.

‘John’ is familiar, but it is not _him_ and the fact that this name doesn’t fit him- no it’s not that that frustrates him, it is the fact that that it is not _his name._

* * *

 

He comes just in time to put his hands forward to prevent his fall.

He stays down though.

There is a red substance on his hands and he’s almost eye to eye with dull grey eyes and-

And the familiar fabric of a trench coat he’s chased after god-knows-how-many times, is only an inch or so away from his chin and there is something distant inside of him screaming in agony.

Someone hoists him into a standing position, and there is a new voice ringing in his ears, but he can’t bring himself to respond before blackness consumes his vision.

He doesn’t wake for a very long time.

 

* * *

 

When he does wake there is someone with a familiar voice shouting not a few feet away.

“John!  John!  Wake up!”

His name _isn’t ‘John’_ and if trench coat calls him that _one more time-_

The thought breaks off because he realizes he’s standing in a candle-lit room, there is chalk drawings on the floor that have lines of wax crisscrossing over them and he is not running, or tackling, or falling, or shooting, or even fighting.  He is just standing.

Then a hacking cough wracks the air followed closely by heavy labored breathing.

Something he realizes he himself is no longer doing, doesn’t need to do.

“Sher-lock”

The new voice is completely unfamiliar, but the rustle of cloth, heavy wool, and the sound of chaffing denim is not.

“John, John look at me, what happened?!”

“Behind-”

The unfamiliar voice breaks off into a round of coughing as ‘Sherlock’ whips around to face him, crouched protectively over the unknown- this ‘John’.

Something burning cold sears his lower abdomen, he tries to chase it away by brushing a hand over the area, but the feeling persists, so he tries to forget it.

“Who are you?! I want a name!”

It’s trench coat yelling at him, but he has no name, not yet, so all he does is blink slowly, and feel his lips twitch slightly.

‘Sherlock’ is aiming a hand gun at him now, still demanding answers, ‘John’ is still breathing laboriously.

Him?  He’s watching ‘Sherlock’ curiously, eyes focused on that oh-so-familiar trench coat before ‘Sherlock’ begins to move forward and he catches sight of those eyes.

Blazing grey, dangerous and provoked.

Familiar like the trench coat is.

He grins even as ‘Sherlock’ snarls.

And he speaks for the first time since he was created, at night in the middle of a cooling afghan desert inside a body decorated with two separate bullet wounds.

“I have no name, but I do believe you called.”

“I didn’t call anyone.” Sherlock snaps, but he is already moving forward, gun still prepped to fire.

He can’t resist taking that one step forward now, the one that allows the light to show his features, even as a shark-toothed grin stretches his lips and he whispers, “oh, but didn’t you?”

‘Sherlock’s’ eyes go wide first flaring with horror, confusion and then intrigue.

The gun doesn’t lower, but he is able to step passed ‘Sherlock’ without a word, coming to stand beside a collapsed ‘John’ before, in one sweeping motion, he kneels on the floor and with careful fingers and sparks of energy that light up the room for brief flickering moments, finds the source of ‘John’s’ ‘problem’.

It is then that he realizes where he came from, since John is missing a small piece of his soul, a piece barely big enough to allow a demon to reside in, a piece forcibly torn from John’s own soul the moment he stepped into this cruelly and amateurishly made ritual room.

He eyes the unseen damage curiously, ignoring the gun pressed to the back of his skull.

He doesn’t want his creator to die simply because his soul was made for and in the proper condition to carry and wield a demon before it was ripped out of John’s soul and placed into its own body prematurely.

Sparks of all colors, mostly drowned out by odd black and grey miniature fireworks fill the air.

He proceeds carefully with his self- appointed task, vaguely registering a sound of shock and the clatter of the gun hitting the ground behind as he mends his creators torn soul.

John has been unconscious for the whole procedure, still is when he stands, towering above John’s unconscious form and only a couple of centimeters below Sherlock in height.

He turns to face the trench coat wearing man who, he can tell, is still attempting to figure out what he’s done.

The demon’s grin is back in place, and for a moment he fears it will never fade before he locks gazes with Sherlock and there are only inches of air separating the two, human and demon.

Before Sherlock can react, the demon closes the gap, pressing dry lips to the dark haired humans, pulls back and turns on his heel a complete 360 degrees, throwing a ‘thanks’ over his shoulder as he disappears.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock can’t bring himself to move until two minutes and forty-six seconds have passed, and when he does, it’s to hurriedly kneel down beside his friend, and check body temperature, pulse and ensure there are no physical injuries before he attempts to wake the doctor.

Thirty-two seconds of gentle, though persistent, shaking lead to John’s eyes slowly fluttering open.

Sherlock, whose feelings for his companion-no his friend have grown steadily over the many months since the two first met are now bubbling over.

Sherlock does one of the last things either of them expect.

He kisses John.

Forces the memory of the man with magic, eyes a daring blaze of orange, hair an odd shock of bright red, and gleaming, claw-like nails to the back of his mind.

Later he will try to delete it and won’t succeed.

John never saw the creature, and isn’t sure what to make of what Sherlock does tell him about it, the two agree to keep it under wraps before continuing on with their lives.

It seems like the event has been successfully pushed behind the two, and then they walk into a crime scene one night, and Sherlock spies a very familiar ritual circle interlaced on the floor, hidden beneath rugs, furniture and a virtual horde of children toys.

He manages to get everyone besides John out of the room before the circle lights up in an array of yellows and blacks.

The light blind the detective and his lover before slowly fading, and there, splayed across the bed like he owns it, is an oh-so-familiar demon, teeth displayed in a sharp grin.

“Why hello there, someone call or am I hearing things now?”

John is spluttering incredulously beside Sherlock and the detective himself is eyeing the creature that is perched on the child’s bed precariously with something like caution.

“The later I would think, since no one has called you, not that there is even a name to call you by is there?”

The red head grins, eyes bright even in the well lit room.

“Sherlock?  You, you know-?”

“My bad, so sorry I didn’t get to meet you last time, but I figured that leaving one of you in shock was better than having you both speechless.  Plus, there was the added fact that I had to heal your soul,” there is a slight hand gesture in John’s direction from the creature perched on the bed, “and I do believe that internal conflicts after a soul healing can be detrimental to ones…hmm, existence I guess would be the right word.”

“Right well, thanks for that I guess, but what the hell do you mean ‘soul healing’?!  It’s not-well-”

“Not what?  Legitimate?  Funny that you’re the one asking that question, but I can assure you, souls are real enough, I wouldn’t exist if you humans didn’t have souls after all.”

John is still confused evidently since there’s that tall-tale frown on his lips and his brow is furrowed, but it is Sherlock that persists.

“What do you mean you wouldn’t exist, you’re human just like the rest of us, surely you were given birth-”

“Oh, of course I was given birth, but not in the conventional sense.  A demon can’t be born like that you know, all we are is intent and small bit of soul placed into a solid form after all, we aren’t physically born you know?  Just not proper that, defiantly taboo among the majority of us, too many- ah my bad, I’m going off on a tangent now…”

“What?!  Too many what?”

“Incidents of course.  Way too many… some of humanities most well-known criminals are actually demons taking over the human embryo in order to be born naturally.”

“Assuming that you’re telling the truth-”

“I’m not a demon created for the purpose of lying dear Sherlock, and my creator has rarely if ever lied during his entire lifetime, but please continue.”

“As I was saying, assuming you’re telling the truth, you are born from the mere existence of a soul.”

“That is the simplest way of looking at it yes, in reality there are quite a few variables and circumstances necessary for the creation and birth of a demon.”

“Such as?”

The demon grins, eyes flashing with humor before it replies.  “How about you figure out who my mother is Sherlock, and deduce most of it for yourself?  Must be going now, things to do, chaos to create, call me when you want to talk again.  Ta!”

There’s another bright flare of colors and then, before either Sherlock or John can call the creature back, the demon vanishes into thin air.

“Sherlock?  What…?”

“I don’t know John, I really don’t know…”

 

* * *

 

It’s been a week since the interaction with the …demon… and John feels the urge to attempt to strangle the creature the next time he sees it because it drove Sherlock into such a state.

The man is whirling about their flat like a whirlwind most of the time, and when he’s not doing that he’s so still it would be difficult to tell if the man was actually _alive_.

It doesn’t help matters that Sherlock has been refusing case after case set before him, and the kitchen island is bereft of ongoing experiments which just _isn’t right_ , and John has already had to throw Sherlock into the bathroom twice just so the man would shower.

Right, never mind the strangling, he’ll shoot the damn thing the next time.

“Oh.  Ohhh!  But no that’s-  When-  hmmm-?”

John’s head collides with the table and he can’t keep back the quite whimper that escapes his lips.

“Shhh John, I think I’ve got it!  Now chalk, wax…”

John curses under his breath, grabs his coat, grasps Sherlock by the front of his shirt to pull him into a kiss before storming out of the flat and onto London’s streets.

He just needs to leave for a bit and cool off, it’s reasonable for Sherlock to be interested in this, whatever this is, since the whole thing is illogical.

Because demons?  Really?

 

* * *

 

When he catches sight of something looming over Sherlock’s armchair in the darkened flat, the first thing John does is shoot first and ask questions later.

“Ouch.  That was a bit unnecessary.”

John gives a wordless snarl and throws on the lights.

Or, at least he tries to, the damn things don’t turn on.

Power outage.  How did he not notice that?

“A hole in the shirt too, damn…” there’s a sigh which John ignores as he goes searching for the torch that’s supposed to be on the kitchen counter but _is not_.

“On the fireplace, I think that’s what you’re looking for.”

John huffs but goes to the fireplace and fumbles around until his hand comes in contact with cool cylindrical metal.

He grasps it, and it takes a moment before he manages to turn it on, but the sight he’s met with is bizarre but, well, somehow appropriate.

The demon is, oddly enough, crouched precariously on the back of Sherlock’s armchair like some deranged bird, and Sherlock himself, all gangly limbs, is stretched horizontally across the cushion, legs and neck thrown over the arms of the chair itself.

“Did you really find it necessary to shoot me?”

“Yep.”

The demon blinks at him before shrugging and turning his gaze to the dark grey collared shirt it’s wearing and reaching up to fiddle with a hole close to the seam of the right sleeve.  If the demon had been human, it would have been a kill shot.

“So what’s all this then?” John asks, motioning towards the Sherlock and the demon himself, trying not to give away just how much he’d like to punch the demon in the face since bullets seem to have no effect on the damn creature.

“Oh, this, well… he kinda called me here and it seems like he hadn’t gotten any sleep in a while so I kinda… umm yeah…”

John couldn’t help but raise an incredulous eyebrow.  “You knocked out Sherlock Holmes?”

“Problem?”

“Wish I could have been here for that.  Anyways, the lights?”

“Didn’t touch ‘em did that on their own, power outage I think, at least a two block radius.”

“So why did Sherlock call you again?”

The demon, still illuminated by the light of the torch shrugged slightly, “He wanted to make sure he deduced who my mother was.”

“And did he?”

“Nope, almost threw a right tantrum though.”

“Really?”

“Mmmhmm, threw the damn skull at me.”

“What not a fan of blood and bones now are we?  I thought that was what all you creatures of death, chaos and general damnation enjoyed.”

“Oi, just because we’re a different species doesn’t mean we like having things thrown at us or being shot at you git, Jesus Christ man, thought you were the sensible one outta the two of you!”

John can help but snort at this, “I used to be, then you popped out of nowhere, provoked Sherlock and after a week of dealing with his shit, I’m not feeling particularly amiable.”

“Obviously.  You shot me.  That’s being homicidal.”

“Not a word you git.  Not a word.”

The demon snickered even as John moved passed it to the staircase, he paused half-way up the stairs, wondering if he should carry Sherlock to bed before discarding the idea.  The idiot could wake up with a kink in his neck for all John cared, especially after the past week.

Sherlock slept on, unawares.

 

* * *

 

It was 3:51 AM when the lights in the flat returned to life, blinding its one awake inhabitant and awakening the other two.

The demon ended up crouched on the ground behind Sherlock’s armchair, curled in on itself where it had fallen after being completely blinded by the fluorescents.

Sherlock groaned before throwing an arm over his eyes and attempting to roll over.  He ended up on the floor with a loud thump much like the demon.

John, simply stumbled into the living room of the flat with a large yawn until he caught sight of the two prone forms on the ground and burst out laughing.

He got an accurately thrown shoe to the face courtesy of their new pet demon, which was followed by the crow of “Hah!  That’s what you get for shooting me you bloody bastard!”

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock, listing off a bunch of random names is getting you nowhere-”

“Lucy, Abigail, Molly, Jane, Joan-”

The red haired demon perks up a bit at ‘Joan’ but shakes his head afterwards, returning is head to the palm of its hand while boredly tapping a rhythm out on the arm of the couch he’s perched on.

“Sherlock.”

“Marissa, Clarisse, Beverly, -”

John watches the demon as it tips its head back and releases a tremendous sigh, eyelids flickering closed.

After a moment of watching the demon, a thought prods at him and before he realizes it, his mouth is forming the words quicker than his mind is.

“You said ‘mother’, but you already said that it’s taboo for demons to be born like humans, and well, earlier you referred to your creator as a ‘he’ so,” the demon has its eyes focused on him now, waiting eagerly, “so you’re mother doesn’t have to be a woman?”

The demon grins widely, “ten points to John Watson” it rumbles softly before settling back into the couch.

For some reason, John is not exactly reassured by the realization that he got one over Sherlock, who is now silent, grey-blue eyes wide at the implications before the consulting detective focuses on the demon once again.

“John.”

The demons grin becomes even sharper if that was possible, even as John flounders for air, and one word slips out of the demons mouth.

“ _Correct._ ”

 

* * *

 

“…”

“John?”

John is staring at the red haired demon with exasperation and confusion.

“…right, okay… so how did that work exactly?”

Sherlock is hovering around John like some sort of protective… thing, and the demon watches them both silently for a moment, head tilted to the side curiously before it replies.

“Well, occasionally there is the rare human that is born with a soul capable of creating a demon, there are probably 1 out of 509 humans capable of the feat.  But that 1 out of 509 also have to thrive in certain conditions and those conditions must support the type of demon being created in the humans’ soul.  As it is, we demons have a larger fatality rate ‘in the womb’ so to speak, in comparison to any other supernatural creature.  With me, I was born to survive and thrive under violent conditions.”

“Afghanistan.”

“Oh of course, but mostly it was what you did after you came back to London.”

John’s eyes are wide and there’s a flush rising from the color of his jumper.  “You mean… that time…?”

Sherlock is tossing a confused look at John before turning searching eyes to the demon who is visibly shaking with barely contained laughter.

“Sorry, sorry, my bad, I was just getting a mighty bit … ah… frustrated…”

“Frustrated!  You were getting frustrated?!  That doesn’t explain-!” John cuts himself off with a cough before turning away to rub the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.

“Oh, but doesn’t it?  It gets quite frustrating when you’re chasing after an _object_ but tend to lose all _bloody awareness_ before you _catch the damn thing._ ”

“John?  What-?”

“Oh so you just couldn’t resist having me tackle Sherlock because _you_ were getting frustrated?!  That makes the whole situation a damn sight better for you doesn’t it?!  You have no idea how bloody _embarrassing_ that was!”

“At least I didn’t do again after that.”

John is scowling at the demon now and Sherlock, though brilliant is still looking slightly confused before his eyes widen and beginning to dart between the demon and his flatmate.

“John, are you-?”

“Shut it Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowns, shooting a disgruntled glare at his lover only to get a raised eyebrow in response before the doctor turns on his heel and storms upstairs to his bedroom.

“Well, that went well I think.”

“For you you mean.”  Sherlock replies, focusing his gaze back on the demon.

“Course, he didn’t punch me after all.”

“You do realize he might just be waiting to do that later.”

The demon shrugs.

“Always a possibility.”

 

* * *

 

When John makes his way downstairs the next morning, he finds Sherlock splayed out on the sofa fingers stapled underneath his chin, and the demon in its- no his- former position atop Sherlock’s armchair eyes focused on the dark haired human.

“Really Sherlock?  What is it now?”

“Name.”

John blinks, and tries again, “What?”

“He needs a name John!” Sherlock is gesturing to the demon, who is contentedly swaying back and forth on his perch.

“No Sherlock, if you name him, you’ll want to keep him and keeping him means we have a demon as a pet and that just really shouldn’t happen.”

Sherlock opens one eye to peer at him before replying.

“Really John?  You’re his mother and you’re not even going to give him a name?”

“He’s not staying Sherlock.”

Sherlock gives him _the look_.

The demon remains perched on the armchair for the rest of the day and several afterwards.

 

* * *

 

It takes five days for them to settle on a name.

Maverick.

Neither John nor Sherlock are too fond of the name at first, it’s just one that John throws into the air that is almost immediately discarded before they realize that the demon had nodded at the name.

They found out as soon as the next name filtered into the air and the creature began to growl that, well, he liked the name Maverick.

When they took to asking the demon questions using a variety of different names, Maverick ignored them until they actually began to call the demon by its chosen name.

The more they used Mavericks given name though, the more they realized how well it fit the creature.

 

* * *

 

221B Bakers Street has never been more interesting for it’s inhabatents.

Mrs. Hudson at first didn’t know what to make of the demon who had a penchant for perching atop Sherlock’s armchair, a fondness for green tea and Thai food, and the habit of stealing any free scrap of paper and doodling on it in addition to singing a cappella whenever Sherlock played violin (no words mind you, just notes).

After a few days it became clear that she had grown fond of the couples pet demon (not that they would dare call Maverick that within hearing range), even going so far as to bring him tea, even when Sherlock and John were off on a case.

In return, Maverick kept Sherlock from doing anything as drastic as shooting holes in the wall again.

 

* * *

 

Admittedly, Maverick was slowly having to fight boredom after a week and a half of being prevented from leaving the flat.

Until Lestrade and several other forensic specialists burst into the flat on a drugs bust only to catch sight of Maverick in his favorite position and in plain sight of the door way.

“What the fucking _hell?!_ ”

Maverick blinked and cocked his head sideways before replying drily, “I hope you know that Sherlock’s going to return in about five minutes, he just went out to pick up some tea.  Now, are you actually going to do what you came in here to do or stand around like idiots who can’t even manage to do their jobs correctly?”

When John hears about that last comment from a disgruntled and irritated Greg Lestrade, he smacks Maverick upside the head.

Meanwhile Sherlock is shaking with suppressed laughter on the sofa.

 

* * *

 

John is the one that adds to Mavericks hobbies by allowing him access to his laptop.

Neither realize that Maverick has a penchant for writing as well before Sherlock finds an unfamiliar, and rather large word document on John’s laptop.

Maverick isn’t pleased when Sherlock tells him he actually enjoyed the piece simply because he _wasn’t finished yet god damn it!_

* * *

 

A hog-tied blond haired man is found on top of Mrs. Hudson’s garbage cans with a broken leg along with several broken ribs.

When John comes home and see’s the window wide open, he chastises Maverick for leaving it that way.

Several moments later, an irritated Lestrade is marching up the stairs and into the flat.

Sherlock is right behind him, lips twitching slightly.

John realizes in a moment that Maverick’s done something ‘a bit not good’ and scowls at him from across the living room.

“You really want an assassin in your flat?  Alright, I won’t disturb the next one that breaks in if that’s how you want it.”

John begins to choke on air and Sherlock actually chuckles.

Lestrade simply runs a hand through his hair in agitation before leaving the flat, aggravation radiating off of him before calling back, “You know what?  That’s it, I’m done with all this shit!”

Sherlock and John can’t help to break out into laughter at that.

Maverick smirks from his position atop his and Sherlock’s chair.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever leave these two alone now, even if the noises of sex he can hear occasionally disturb his sleep.

John and Sherlock are family after all, and Mrs. Hudson is certainly a best friend amongst the madness that follows the duo.

The two are so busy laughing that neither of them see that Maverick has snapped a photo of the scene using a new phone.

They also don’t know that he sends it to Mycroft.

_Told you I’d get them like this someday- Mav_

_Don’t get cocky- MH_


End file.
